Juice, p.31
Juice, page 31
The plan was to sneak through the Strait of Hormuz under cover of darkness, press south-west until we stood off the Al Jazirah Sands. There ten operators would be taken ashore. Four would dig in to defend the extraction point. The other six, the strike team, were to trek the sands of the fallen kingdom, get up into the hinterland and find a place the planners were calling Wadi 46.
Within Wadi 46 lay a fearsome citadel. Intel anticipated a well-armed mercenary force of twenty individuals, possibly more. Our object was a 38-year-old princeling. With him were fourteen family members, four of them children, and a household staff of between eight and twenty, all of whom were pressed labour.
Informants within the stronghold described a tunnel system within the wadi walls. Facing west was an open terrace, much lower but otherwise not so different to the one in Utah. It had multiple firing positions and commanded a view of the western approaches. Once our strike team got close, they were to infiltrate three hours after dark. We’d leave the bulkier kit at the staging point, go in light, and meet the two informants at the edge of the dune field. Their password was amity. Ours was level. In exchange for guiding us into the lair, these assets had been promised protection and extraction, but given the logistical challenges in play, these undertakings could not and would not be delivered on.
The actual acquittal was to occur within a two-hour window. Everyone was to be accounted for. Then we’d make the trek back to the coast for an aerial extraction.
It was a wildly ambitious enterprise. Beyond daring. We were perilously outnumbered. We had less than ten days in which to get the job done. And most of that time we’d be trekking without suits over the harshest country imaginable.
Things began smoothly enough. Once the planners had dished out pills and we’d huffed oxygen a while, the foils were lowered, and we buzzed to the beach under cover of darkness. We pressed in behind the dunes and the extraction team got to work digging in. The rest of us harnessed up and struck out for the interior. Of the six of us, I was by far the oldest, and the only man.
Our senior was the one with the patch. She was all business. And she’d clearly had briefings the rest of us weren’t privy to. She struck me as confident to the point of carelessness. I could only hope that whatever counsel had fuelled her boldness was solid.
We set out across the sands in broiling darkness. The dune ridges were steep and corrosively hot. We moved as quickly as we dared, checking on one another silently, at intervals, in case of heat sickness. In those conditions, we should have been working in suits, but their life-support packs were heavy and barely lasted forty-eight hours. We’d be afoot for more than a week, so even if the suits kept us alive a day or two on the way in, they would help kill us before we even started back.
We were dangerously burdened as it was. In addition to our personal gear and the rations snapped to our chests in satchels and in our webbing, we each wore a water bladder on our back, and over that a shell case of gas canisters and charged cartridges for the tools lashed at our shoulders. And, of course, we all had to take turns hauling the little field watermaker along, like a mascot we daren’t forsake.
The sand was roasting hot. And soft. So the going was brutal.
Just short of first light, as a flaying wind got up from the north, we dug in under films and nets and lay in a tight circle around the maker, slimy, sand-crusted and panting. In between woozy naps, we worked to fill our water bladders and clear our tools of sand.
Twice during that daylight camp, drones flew high overhead, running grid patterns without pause or deviation. They looked automated. There was nothing to do about them but lie still, trust that our camo was working and that the wind was helping obscure our tracks. But we knew there wasn’t much chance of arriving at our destination with the advantage of surprise.
At dusk we broke camp to resume hauling ourselves over the razorbacks. No one mentioned the irregular, supplementary loads being carried by the senior and me. The pair of us each had a long shell lashed across our shoulder blades. Still marked as breathing gear. No mention of fire had been made during the final shipboard briefing.
We had a mandated distance to cover each night. We understood failure to keep schedule would be fatal – that is, if we didn’t kill ourselves in the effort.
Near the end of the third night, our senior called a halt and ordered the maker and any other tech switched off. We’d arrived at the wadi. So we dug in and stood to.
Why kill the maker? I whispered close.
We think they’ve developed a way of locking on.
To our tools as well?
Only at discharge.
Great.
Stop whining and keep your fucking eyes open.
I cleared my goggles and peered into the murk. But even when the light came up, it was impossible to distinguish a landform in all that sand and dawn shadow. When the glare took hold and the mirages got up, it was worse.
In the middle of the afternoon, mired in sweat, with a full diaper, and my ears ringing in the heat, I wriggled back up beside the senior.
What’s the real plan? I whispered.
As advertised. Waiting for the informants to show.
So this is not a suicide mission?
Verboten.
So’s fire.
The order is to use gas. The rest is the means of last resort. It cannot be used before gas.
That’s kind of stupid.
They’re squeamish. They want to be able to tell themselves they exhausted all alternatives.
That’ll get some of us killed.
Doubtless.
Jesus, I hissed. If we’re gonna do wrong, we may as well get the benefit of it.
I agree, she said. But here we are.
Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die, I said.
You have doubts. So noted. Now fuck off and let me sleep.
At last light, I woke the senior again. She rolled slowly onto her belly to glass the terrain ahead.
Nothing.
I shook my head.
Did you sleep?
A little, I whispered.
I bet you dreamt of home.
I don’t remember.
So you say, old man.
What about you? I asked.
Sleep, yes. Dream, no.
What about home?
This is home for me now.
This place?
No, she said with a mirthless grin. This work.
Does that mean you’ll miss it more than home? When it’s over?
It’ll never be over, she whispered, her breath bitter in my face. But if it ever stops, yes, I’ll be homeless.
I stared at her. Wondered if perhaps she could be joking. But I saw something in her eye, a glaze that suggested something well beyond fatigue. It was a deadness from which I found myself recoiling.
Three hours after sunset, someone saw a figure. Then a second. I never saw either.
We’ll go out to meet them, said the senior.
I took a young operator onto the left flank. The senior and her second held the centre. And the third pair were to the right. We were, for a couple of minutes, a standard feeler, an inverted V.
We hadn’t even found hard ground, let alone the wadi itself, when the farthest pair were lit up in a single flash. After the crack, a few ragged chunks of flesh and webbing rained down around us, and I knew without even lifting my face from the dirt there were only four of us left.
So much for our guides. I could only assume they’d been betrayed. Tortured for information. If they ever existed. Had I been leading this show I’d have withdrawn immediately. And I was heartened, when I next put my head up, to see the senior give the signal to fall back. We didn’t need a second prompt. But once the young recruit and I fell into the shallow ditch beside her, I saw she had no intention of retreating further.
I caught the origin flash, she said calmly. They’re out there on the right. Elevated. Maybe ten o’clock high. We’ll take everything with us except the rations and the maker. Strap up. Leaving in sixty.
And the plan? I asked, cinching straps and checking my gas cartridges.
We go out there to the left. I’ll leave the maker switched on here. Once they get a lock on that, they’ll light it up. Then we can confirm it’s the same point of origin. If there’s a second firing position we’ll adjust, but if it’s the same one we’ll work our way in, two up, two back, and look for an opening.
Fucking sketchy, I said.
Suit yourself.
She flicked the toggle on the maker. Then she was up and running, her offsider hard on her heels. The youngster and I scrambled to our feet and lurched out into the dark.
Through the visor I caught the movement of the others sprinting and weaving out ahead. The sand was still soft and deep underfoot. The smell of burnt webbing and scorched meat hung in the air. When the senior and her second pitched forward onto their bellies, I yanked my partner down and scanned right. Through the swirling murk of the night visor, it was still impossible to distinguish any difference in the landscape, but less than ten seconds later a burst rent the darkness, still on the right flank, and for the briefest moment I glimpsed hard edges and body silhouettes at either side of the source. Behind us the ground shook.
That’s the watermaker gone, said my second.
They’re close, I said.
This fucking bitch is crazy, she hissed.
Let’s go, I said, hauling her up by the arm.
The senior was already up. She and her offsider had started priming gas canisters.
Another wild bloom of light erupted and I felt the hot column of air peel by before the spatter of hardware and meat knocked me onto all fours. That was the end of my second. I didn’t even look back.
Out ahead, the senior and her sidekick ran full tilt in the direction of the origin flash. Then they dipped out of sight. It took a second or two to figure out why, but I was soon pitching down the sudden decline in their wake, struggling to keep my feet on the gravel surface. Another big flash – this time to the left of us – ripped the ground ahead of the senior and illuminated a lumpy wall of rock beyond.
Now I could see we’d come to a wide draw at the mouth of a wadi. Another burst from the right went crackling past my shoulder and at its source I saw a nest of heads in a long rectangular recess overhead. That’s where our first canisters went. Mine seemed to fall short – just clunked onto some kind of sill and spun lazily until a hand appeared, tried to get hold of it and then let it go again. Two more gas rounds went up after that. Then another flash from the left cut the senior’s second in two. I sent two bursts from my tool up to where I thought it originated and for a few moments there was a heady pause. I scrambled in hard against the rock face to gain some cover. There were cries from above and wretched coughing.
More gas, shouted the senior, masking up.
I dragged my own mask down, snapped another canister on, stepped back to improve the angle, and launched it over the parapet. She sent up another, and then together we hugged the rough base of the wadi wall, listening to the clatter of kit and bodies falling overhead.
Then it was quiet. For a while I thought we might have neutralized their defences. We’d still have to find a point of entry. Without guidance. And now there were only two of us. But more boots began to thud overhead, and I knew our chances of penetrating were almost nil.
We sent more gas up over the rampart, but in the wake of that salvo there was a fresh smattering of tool fire from overhead. To make matters worse, the big unit to the right started up again. For the moment, the angle of elevation still favoured us, but we were pinned against the base of the wall, trapped within this withering fusillade. Even through the gas mask, the chlorine stink of ozone was sharp.
The senior shrugged off her shell case and snapped it open. I didn’t need urging – I did the same.
We should have fucking started with this, she said.
We’re here now, I said.
But before I could prime and spark the pilot flame there were shouts followed by a whirr overhead. I dropped the cylinder and snatched up my tool. As the little drone swept down, I caught it with one long, swirling burst and bits of it rained against the wadi wall and skittered off our visors. I jacked out the power cartridge, replaced it with a fresh one and shouldered my tool while I finished prepping the flamethrower.
As I strapped the cylinder on, the senior ignited her nozzle and stepped back, almost casually, into the open. The gooseneck wand issued a long, curdling scream and a thick cord of light poured up, a rope of fire fifty metres long. She hosed their position sideways, back-stepping boldly, raking flames across the battlement and into the cavity behind it. After looking on for some moments, appalled and terrified, I followed her lead. And so began the business of burning people alive. And here’s the thing of it. It was easy. In the moment, my body pulsing with urgency, it felt straightforward. And necessary. I crabbed along the wadi floor sending fire across the parapet, smelling scorched flesh and burning plastics until the earth belched, lifted underfoot, and swallowed me whole. As if for shame.
When I came to, in a stifling gloom, the first thing I saw was sandstone. It seemed close overhead, a lumpy, friable ceiling. Grit in the air. My ears hissed. Every surface gave off a wounding flare and everything around me was hectic with motes and floaters. I recognized the symptoms of a blast concussion.
I couldn’t tilt my head at all. It hurt to move my eyes. Even lifting and lowering my eyelids set off a charge that ran down through my jaw and into my chest. So far as I could tell, I was on my back, in a narrow cave or tunnel. From somewhere behind me a faint light angled in, and a roasting wind funnelled through to jab at the crown of my head. My naked head. The helmet and visor gone.
I tried to concentrate, to remember, to orientate. Everything was furry, flary, woozy. I felt as if I’d been dropped from a very high place. And I didn’t remember how. I felt unutterably fragile, and a hot panic began to course through me as I became convinced that the tiniest movement would cause every bone in my body to shatter. I began to hyperventilate. And then, after a time, I reeled myself back to order.
Yes, I could feel my fingers and toes. And the air travelling across them. Which was a good start. But it meant I’d been stripped by a concussion wave or robbed. In any case, I was now exposed – to weather as much as to adversaries – and I knew I had to summon the energy and courage to sit up and survey my situation. Form a plan, take some action. But I needed a moment. To compose myself. Brace for the pain. So I closed my eyes in preparation. And everything was better. All was suddenly good.
When I opened my eyes again the light was gone. Total darkness. Only the hot wind remained to assure me I was still in the same place, the same dream, the same trouble. I listened. No ringing in my ears. In fact, I could hear my pulse, my ragged breathing. And then, after a long searching wait, I heard something in the darkness behind me. A small movement of sand. Like a body shifting.
Hello? I whispered.
After a second or two I felt the waft of something passing. Then a hand on my chest, something hard against my chin. Liquid ran against my lower lip. I tucked my jaw, despite the pain of it, and drank. The water tasted native, sandy. I felt a moment of revival and curiosity. But then everything melted away again.
The next time I surfaced, hands were on me and there was light enough to see a veiled face, a pair of eyes, a swathe of fabric, some sort of cloak. I felt a wet cloth, saw it come away filthy pink from my skin. Dried blood. Whose, I wasn’t sure. There was a deep ache in my core, but I felt no surface pain anywhere and wondered if I was paralysed or drugged.
Another face appeared. Also veiled. A pair of hands proffered a tiny parcel. Something bound in grey oilskin. Those hands began to unwrap it. And a pinkish cube lay bare against a bed of grey cloth. Dark fingers broke a piece off and brought it to my mouth. It was moist, pasty, the taste not unpleasant. I ate until it was gone and, after I’d drunk again, the figure withdrew. I felt the sand under me and registered something soft, perhaps a roll of fabric, beneath my head. Then the earth tipped inward.
Sir?
I opened my eyes. It was darker now. But there was a light coming from somewhere. It looked unstable, handheld. There were faces above me, two at each side. All were wrapped in brown cloths.
Oh, I said, almost dumbstruck.
Are you well?
I think so, I stammered. Am I a prisoner?
No, sir, said a face to my right. You are our guest. You are welcome among us.
You speak my language.
It is within our capacity.
Am I alone?
Sir, you are with us.
I mean, my people. Am I the only one?
You are the only one of your kind remaining.
I took a few moments to absorb this news. The whole strike unit. The senior.
Sir, you are not safe here.
Why is that? I asked.
The master. He lives.
Your master?
We have no master, they all said as one.
He retreated?
He has gone deep. Into the interior. His kin also.
So why am I not safe?
Sir, his house prevails.
He has people looking for me?
They nodded.
We will take you. To your kind.
That’s decent of you, I said. But I’ll have to go alone.
It will be far.
Not so far, I said carefully.
As six, with means, it was possible for you. As one, with no means, it is too far.
I’ll be fine. But I thank you.
Sir, we have capacity. We will convey you. That is our intention.
Your intention?
You are not safe here in the kingdom. You lack capacity. You must move quickly.
And you can move me quickly?
Yes. We are ready.
Now?
Yes.
